


SAFE

by Lightspeed



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Fluff, Humor, M/M, Named Sole Survivor - Freeform, Synths (Humans), covenant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-23
Updated: 2016-02-23
Packaged: 2018-05-22 21:11:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6094144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lightspeed/pseuds/Lightspeed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>MacCready waits around impatiently while sole survivor Elias Weyland takes the SAFE Exam to get into Covenant.  He muses on the nature of synths as the scourge of the Commonwealth, the state of the wasteland overall, and Weyland's tendency to give bullshit answers for the hell of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	SAFE

The SAFE exam. Some kind of weird entry exam to get into this little town. MacCready had never heard of such a thing. How the hell could they tell if you were a synth just by how you answered a questionnaire? Yeah, right.

Weirder still was the idea that keeping synths out was the sole reason for why their peaceful little town stayed so peaceful. If that were all it took, then the Capitol Wasteland would be an idyllic paradise, not the blasted, irradiated hellscape it was. Not to say the synths weren't a damn menace, same as the rest of the Institute, but they weren't the sole cause of all of the turmoil in the wasteland. That was still mostly humans. And mutants. And ferals. Okay, there were a lot of reasons. But the point was, there was clearly more at work here than just keeping the synths out. The Commonwealth wasn't the only shithole on the East Coast. Not like the rest of the Mid-Atlantic had fared much better. But don't tell that to these Covenant weirdos. Folks in the Commonwealth hated to be told anything, doubly so when what you were telling them was that they were shady as fu—as heck.

MacCready wiggled a finger under the band of his hat to scratch at his head. He was bored. Weyland was taking this stupid test to prove he wasn't a synth of whatever. Of course he wasn't a synth. The damn guy was put on ice long before synths had even been invented. Before the Institute was a twinkle in some mad scientist's eye. He'd taken him there. He'd shown him the pod that had imprisoned him. Shown him the frozen remains of his beautiful wife.

They were more alike than he'd have ever guessed when the handsome wastelander rolled into The Third Rail with a pocket full of caps and need of his rifle. He'd been fine with it. Weyland seemed capable, was willing to pay upfront, and was largely unperturbed by the scene he had walked in on: Gunners threatening his life. He was totally fine getting mixed up in that if it meant MacCready watching his back, rather than another person jamming a gun there. He may have been watching more from behind than just his back, of course.

Looking down at the gold ring around his finger, MacCready studied it, playing with it with his free hand, trying to occupy himself as Swanson, the Covenant doorman—he certainly didn't look tough enough to be considered a guard—questioned Weyland. Some shi—some stuff about infections and yelling scientists. It was all over his head, but Weyland had an answer ready immediately. He could practically hear the gears turning under the ex-soldier's beret. He was terrifically intelligent, almost a crime that he had been power-armoured infantry in that war, rather than someone with a fancy desk and a lab coat. It was a testament to how impressive his marksmanship was that it outshined his brilliant mind. He _really_ did know how to handle a rifle. A smirk crawled across MacCready's face at that thought, and the warm memory beginning to drift through his mind of that morning, when they had set out on the road after a long, rough, lustful night together. He'd been a little worried he'd be aching too much to walk comfortably.

“Congratulations!” Swanson suddenly announced, rousing MacCready from his thoughts. “You made it onto a baseball team!” Oh, still the test. “Which position do you prefer?”

Weyland thought about it for a moment, rubbing at his goatee with a thumb. His lips quirked up, and he replied, “Catcher.” There was intent in that answer. Mostly to unnerve Swanson, partially for the answering snort from MacCready behind him, unable to stifle his laugh.

“You...sure about that?” Swanson replied, sitting back. His eye drifted to MacCready, who resumed playing with his ring, and he shook it off, continuing the test.

Once all of the questions had been answered, and Swanson was relatively convinced that Weyland was, in fact, not a synth, he allowed them entry. He hadn't even bothered to ask MacCready anything, which was fine with him. Trying to keep synths out was a good idea, but in the end, the test was silly. The doorman rounded the desk and went to go unlock the front gate, and after a moment, Weyland rose, intent to follow. MacCready kicked off of the wall and leaned into his  husband once he stood, a wry smirk on his lips. “Catcher. You fucking liar.”

“Language,” Weyland chastised, then slapped MacCready on his ass, making the smaller man nearly choke at the re-awakening of soreness he'd thought gone. “Always keep 'em guessing.”


End file.
